So, what about fathers, Part Deux?

By Don Rush
By Don Rush

Last week I wrote about what dads think about themselves and what society also thinks of men. Walking Paychecks. That’s what most men think of themselves as — providers — and, that is about it. That column led to some chatter out in the social media world, mostly from the AMC (Angry Moms Club), who were upset. Reading between the lines, they took it as a slight against women. I think. Still not sure if they read the entire column, or the awesome power of “selective reading,” which allows anyone to read what they want, regardless of what is in print.
I ain’t sure.
Some may have thought I do not like Father’s Day. Au contraire, mon ami. Being a dad is the best thing I have ever done. This past Father’s Day my boys (Shamus and Sean) got me a jack knife, hot sauce and some Slap Yo Mama cajun seasoning. It was a good day.
I went back into the musty, but hallowed halls of Don’tRushMedom and found a column about Dad’s Day from 2009. I headlined it then, “Damnit Jim, I’m not a spelling coach.”

* * *

This past Sunday was that wonderful Hallmark holiday, Father’s Day. To all the dads out there who love their children, who provide for their kids, who don’t shirk their duties, I tip my hat.
I have long held the belief most fathers get gypped on this day o’ dads. Kids are in school when Mother’s Day rolls around. Teachers make much fuss about this holiday, making sure all students create cards and gifts. No mom is forgotten. On the other hand, Father’s Day is during summer vacation — there are no school teachers helping kiddies make crafts and cards for their dads. Dads have been forgotten.
I wasn’t.
I got a card each from Shamus, now almost 12, and Sean, 9.

Young masters Sean (left) and Shamus, years ago when they were still cute and not so stinky
Young masters Sean (left) and Shamus, years ago when they were still cute and not so stinky

Both cards expressed love and admiration on blue construction paper, with decorative cutting (Shamus trimmed his card on the outside, and Sean lived dangerously and cut out part of the card’s fold). They both pressed their right hand in white paint and pressed their handprint on their respective card’s inside. They both cut out a sentimental poem about dads and glued it in there, too. You know the kind of poem — something heartfelt like:

“You don’t suck (much).
You don’t stink (all the time).
“You’re not cheap (despite what Mom says),
“I like your jack-knife collection,
can you spare a dime?

Shamus drew a robot on card, with all the bells and whistles any self-respecting robot would have (complete with a mini-rotating satellite dish on top).
Sean drew some hearts with faces and decided to use the letters “DAD” to describe his favorite graying, with sideburns, parent.


Okay, I am a dad who is also a writer-type (versus a type writer), but I am not a spelling coach. As a matter of fact, I am not a good speller at all. If you don’t believe me, ask any of the English teachers who were unfortunate enough to teach in the Clarkston School District 30 years ago. Ask the Swartouts, Bidingers, Mahrles, Meylands and the like. They well remember me — not cuz I am a memorable fellow, nor because was I a grand student. Nope, I am memorable to English teachers because the pupil with the least potential, worst spelling, punctuation and sentence structure chose a profession which involved spelling, punctuation and sentence structure. On a weekly basis, I get paid for slaughtering the English language in print — which is a testament to how truly wonderful America is. Anything is possible in this country!
But, I digress. Back to me being Decant, Awsome and Decorative in Sean’s baby-blue eyes. I assume (which can make an ass of me and u — or is it ass of u and me or is it just an ass of me?) “Decant” means I am “decent.” I think. Either that, or he thinks I am decadent. “Awsome” speaks for itself. I am awesome (which is kind of hard when you proclaim to be a lowly and humble scribe). As for “Decorative” I am at a loss. Maybe someone thinks my head would look good hanging on the wall. Maybe it means I am shallow — the wrapping paper around a truly precious gift?
Maybe I should stop thinking about it, lest I get depressed.
Maybe I should just be grateful and offer up a silent “thank you” for my two blessings.
Whatever the meaning, I am a dad, and the lads thought enough of me to think of me. And, for that I am thankful.


There, I hope this calms the emotions within the AMC.

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